Ultimate Prey (Book 3 Ultimate CORE) (CORE Series)

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Ultimate Prey (Book 3 Ultimate CORE) (CORE Series) Page 26

by Kristine Mason


  “One,” he said, his stomach and chest suddenly tightening with the same fear that had run through him when he’d thought Celeste was dead. “Before he tried to kill my wife.”

  Barney nodded. “Now that’s a reason if I ever heard one. Except I hate my ex-wife,” he said on a chuckle. When his smile fell, he took another step closer. “Don’t do what I think you’re gonna. It ain’t right and makes you no better than the man you’re after. If you don’t want to listen to me, then don’t. What the hell do I know? But if you do go through with it, keep Ryan out of it. He’s like a son to me and carries enough guilt as it is.”

  John held the man’s gaze for a moment, before looking away. “Will you still take us out to meet with Ryan and Lola?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  John walked a few steps back. “For the record, the man we’re after brutally tortured two of his victims, before setting them on fire.”

  Barney shook his head and started for the steps. “Boy, you ain’t listening,” he said, stopping in front of him. “I’m not saying the man don’t deserve to die. All I’m saying is make sure you do it in a way you’ll be able to sleep at night.” He narrowed his eye. “And keep Ryan out of it.” He gave his shoulder a pat, then walked away.

  John stood on the dock and thought about what Barney had said, then quickly reached for his cell phone. He unlocked the screen, then opened up the photos. When he came across the one he’d taken yesterday, he made the image larger and stared at his wife and daughter’s beautiful blue eyes. He didn’t want to lose sleep over Steven. He also didn’t want Celeste and Olivia to look into the eyes of a murderer. Because if he went along with Dante’s plan, whether he pulled the trigger or not, that was what he’d be.

  A vigilante murderer no better than the man they were hunting.

  Chapter 13

  Somewhere in the Everglades, Florida

  Thursday, 9:52 p.m. Eastern Standard Time

  STEVEN SPUN IN a circle, the night vision monocular made the world around him a monotonous shade of bright green. He directed the monocular to the ground, only to find his overlapping boot prints. With frustration and rage tearing through him, he ran west searching the lower half of the trees, looking for his notches. He stopped and checked his compass again.

  This should be the spot. He didn’t understand. Yes, he’d overshot the trail he’d made while carrying the screamer by more than a mile, maybe two, but he’d rediscovered Ian’s footprints twenty minutes ago. How could he have lost them again?

  Those righteous CORE bastards. They must have picked up his Ian’s trail, as well. Maybe they even brushed the boot and footprints so that they would blend with the dirt.

  He placed the monocular to his right eye and scanned the ground again. This time he walked south. With his vision nothing more than a small circle of green, and his sightline limited, it was difficult to take the trees and the ground in without sweeping his head from side to side like a lumbering elephant.

  As he moved along, he wondered if Ian had found Cami. If he had, his plans could be screwed, especially if Ian’s agents came to the rescue and carried them away from this shithole. He’d left his only means of transportation back at the rental house, but he could steal a car. Hell, he could catch a bus to Fort Lauderdale and pay his old buddy, Jordan, another visit. Jordan no longer had use for the Impala sitting in the garage.

  Too bad the man hadn’t had more money on him. He’d blown through most of the two grand he had taken from Elaine’s safe, spending it on the hunting pack, the monocular, ammo, food and the inflatable kayak, which now appeared to have been an unnecessary purchase. Now he wished he had taken Elaine’s jewelry and the money his kids had stashed in their bedrooms. But his issue hadn’t been with his kids, it was with the bitch who’d spawned them.

  Movement in the overgrown ferns had him slowing. He aimed the monocular, then took a quick step back. Tiny glowing slits rose through the plant leaves as a snake coiled, then slowly slid back to the ground. He switched the monocular to his left hand, then keeping it pointed on the snake, he pulled the machete from the sheath attached to his belt. He took a careful step, then swung. The snake’s head rolled. He kicked its squirming body aside, then continued along.

  When he’d begun the hunt, he had considered getting lost in the Glades, once he killed the little prick and the screamer. Not anymore. He hated it here. Hated the dense foliage, the soppy wet earth, the mangroves and everything else about this shitty jungle. A part of him wished he could go back to the farmhouse and continue his dad’s dreams of renovating it. His dad had started the process, knocking down walls, gutting the bathroom. But he’d become too sick to continue. The medical bills ate up the money his dad had saved for the reconstruction project, and the house had been heading for foreclosure before he’d received his release papers from Stateville.

  He’d tried to stop the bank from taking the house. He spent hours combing through his father’s files hoping to find an investment or stock his dad might have forgotten about. But there had been nothing. If Ian hadn’t sent him to prison, he could have helped his father realize his dreams. Together they could have brought the house back to its former glory and, on the weekends, hunt the deer and wild turkey abundant on the land.

  Could haves no longer mattered. Righting every wrong done to him did.

  Rustling came from above. He quickly aimed the monocular at the trees. Raccoons, with eyes like demons, stared down on him. Rodents. He moved the monocular downward, then back up and grinned.

  “Gotcha,” he murmured, bent in front of the tree and ran his fingers along the notch he’d made hours ago. He turned the monocular toward the ground in front of the tree and found both his and Ian’s prints, along with…two other sets.

  He clenched his jaw so hard, it popped.

  They were dead. He wouldn’t even toy with them like he’d originally planned. A bullet to each one of their heads and he’d leave them for the animals and insects to eat.

  Determined to find them, he followed the trail. As he walked, he pictured them camping for the night. Imagined coming upon them, aiming his rifle and shooting. Only after he’d put at least five rounds into each of them would he bother to turn on the flashlight and see who had been stupid enough to disobey him. Likely John and that righteous prick, Dante. Since Dante had held him down while John had slapped the cuffs on him, maybe he would make them suffer. He’d never killed a person with the machete. After how easily the tip of the blade had cut Cami’s skin, it would be interesting to discover if the machete handled human bone.

  The multiple tracks grew faint, but after a few feet they become more prominent. Several yards farther, and the monocular exposed the reason why.

  The marsh. The same goddamn marsh that had cost him hours of time.

  While the distance across hadn’t been far—maybe twenty-five or thirty yards—he’d seen an alligator leisurely swimming in the area both times he’d crossed. But, thanks to his error, he knew it rounded out if he went far enough west. He could stay along the shore, take the long way around to the other side, and then pick up his old trail again.

  Anticipation swam through his stomach, which was quite empty. He’d burned a lot of calories today and could use an hour or two of sleep. First, he’d walk around the marsh, which he estimated would take him about a mile out of the way. Then he’d eat, rehydrate and rest.

  As he hiked along, the grass grew taller and thicker. Thorny brush snagged his pants, pricking his legs. The ground had gone from dirt to sludge in most places, forcing him away from the shore.

  The sounds of the night grew annoying. Animals chattered, an owl screeched, frogs croaked, and the insects…damn, they were annoying. If he had to endure more than a night or two out here, he might go insane from the high-pitched whines that sounded like a fax machine on steroids. Although he was a hunter, and normally loved sitting in his tree stand while he waited for the perfect buck to show himself, this type of nature had proved too foreign for h
is liking. He couldn’t stand—

  His boot connected with a fallen limb. He flailed his arms, trying to right himself, but his heavy pack knocked him off balance. He threw his hands forward and braced for the fall, but still landed on his chest. His heart rate high from the sudden shock to his system, he drew in a deep breath and pushed to his knees. The grass behind him swooshed and crackled, followed by a low growl that reminded him of Lurch from The Addams Family.

  Fear squeezed his chest as he tightened his grip on the machete. He’d heard that same growl earlier today when he’d encountered the alligator in the sawgrass marsh. He needed to—

  The straps of his pack suddenly jerked, dug into his shoulders and threw him onto his back. He dug his boots into the mud, dropped the monocular, then drove the machete into the ground to slow him. Panicking, he twisted his body and tried to shimmy the left strap of the pack off his shoulders. The alligator tugged and pulled, its strong jaw and body hauling him toward the marsh.

  He yanked the machete from the ground and drove it toward the gator’s head. The blade connected. The reptile released the pack, then sank its teeth into his left forearm and dragged him through the mud. Fighting the pain and letting adrenaline take over, he scooted his feet toward the center of his body, raised his arm and swung the machete again.

  The son of a bitch didn’t release its hold on him, but stopped moving backward. He took advantage and drove the blade into its skull, again and again, until he was panting, sweating and the gator had stilled.

  A wave of dizziness took hold of his head as he grabbed the gator’s jaw and jerked it back. He pulled his arm free, then the machete. His entire body shook as he felt around the ground for the monocular, then he gave up, slipped the other strap of his pack from his shoulder and searched for the flashlight. The Glades were so damned black, the light would give his location away, but he’d take the risk. He needed to find the monocular and assess the damage.

  He turned on the flashlight, immediately located the monocular, then swept the beam onto the dead alligator, which looked to have been a twelve-footer.

  Killing the flashlight, he placed the monocular to his eye, then inspected his arm. Two deep gashes, three inches apart, ran from below his elbow to above his wrist. The jagged lacerations were about an inch deep and would require medical treatment.

  His body still shaking, the adrenaline still flowing, he sheathed the machete, then rushed away from the marsh. When he reached the cover of the trees, he dropped the pack, sat, pulled out the flashlight, then set it on the ground, angling it toward him.

  While he hadn’t planned on making camp just yet, he had no choice now. He retrieved the first aid kit from his pack, then opened it. Pain radiated from his wound and caused another wave of dizziness. He drew in several deep breaths and tried to clear his head. The bite needed to be treated before it became infected or infested with the insects swarming around him. He ripped open several antiseptic wipes, then pressed them along the gashes. He grit his teeth, squeezed his eyes and fought from crying out. Sweating, breathing hard, he wiped the wound again and again.

  Blood poured from his flesh and dripped on his pants and the dirt between his outstretched legs. He withdrew a large needle attached to a spool of thick thread, an addition his father had taught him to keep in the standard kit. He leaned forward, set his arm on his thigh, then brought the tip of the needle to the top of the wound, closest to his elbow. His hand shook, and with the amount of blood oozing from the bite he had a hard time locating the best spot to begin stitching.

  Mosquitoes landed on his bad arm. He knocked them away, then went to work. He grunted when he pierced the tender skin around the wound, then nearly blacked out when he pushed the needle into the torn flesh on the other side of the gash. After making three more stitches with the threaded needle, he took the water jug from the pack, opened it, then poured water over his arm. Once the wound had been bathed, he went back to work. By the time he’d reached the end of the laceration, sweat coated his shirt and dripped from his forehead to his nose. He dumped more water over the crude stitching, then used the scissors from the kit to cut the thread. After tying the knot, he quickly worked on the other gash.

  His entire body ached from tensing and straining his muscles. At least his arm had grown numb to the pain. His tingling fingertips worried him, though, and he suspected the gator had likely torn through muscle and tendons. He could deal with the aftereffects. At this point, he was relieved to even have an arm.

  When he finished the last stitch, then knotted it, he rinsed his arm. After blotting it with gauze, he cleaned it again with the antiseptic wipes, applied antibacterial ointment and gauze, then wrapped his entire forearm with a roll of elastic bandages. Blood instantly seeped through the bandage, but, at this point, there was nothing more to be done and he was in no shape to continue on tonight.

  His clothes were soaked from being dragged by the gator through the muddy water near the marsh shore. He might’ve found dry ground to rest for the night, but he’d soak his compact sleeping bag if he didn’t change. Uncertain how long he’d end up stuck in this hellhole, he found a dry shirt and pants in the pack, then stood to change. Vertigo had him leaning against the tree and abandoning the idea. He sank back down, opened the sleeping bag and, instead of crawling inside, draped it over his body. Using the pack as a pillow, he rested his head and closed his eyes.

  Although the bite wound throbbed and pain radiated up his arm, giving him a massive headache, he’d try to sleep for a few hours, then continue the hunt. The alligator had done a number on him, but hadn’t deterred his objective. One way or another, he’d find Ian and the screamer, along with the two agents following him.

  He grinned in the dark and pictured the machete sticking out from the alligator’s head. No one fucked with him. Not even a gator.

  *

  “I can’t believe I ever swore off potato chips,” Cami said, plopping another chip in her mouth, then washing it down with one of the many bottles of water they’d found stashed in the kitchenette.

  Home for the night had turned out to be an old trailer, not a shack. Surrounded by overgrown plants, rusted and, in places, covered in a thick layer of moss, if Cami hadn’t seen the reflection off one of the small windows, the trailer would have gone unnoticed.

  At first, Ian had almost been afraid to go inside. The place looked as if it had come straight out of one of Cami’s horror movies. Once they’d broken the window on the trailer door, then entered, he’d been mildly surprised. Several fishing poles and nets leaned against the interior wall, along with waders and tackle boxes. While the trailer was filthy and smelled like dead fish, the kitchen-living room combination offered them everything they’d need for the night—blankets, junk food, water, candles and flashlights. They’d also found a first aid kit. He’d used the contents to clean the wounds on Cami’s upper arm where the bullet had grazed her, along with the cuts on her stomach, forearm and legs—which, thankfully, weren’t deep. She, in turn, had taken care of the cut across his forehead, while he’d tended to his feet. Unfortunately, there hadn’t been anything in the kits to help with the rash along his chest.

  “I’m stuffed,” she said, pushing the small bag aside. “How were your cheese puffs?”

  He showed her the empty bag, then dropped it. “Almost as good as the beef jerky.” He pushed off the dirty floor, taking one of the flashlights with him. “I’m going to see what else is here.”

  As soon as they’d stepped inside, his first priority had been hydrating and taking care of Cami’s cuts. He’d worried about infection, especially after seeing the tiny insects feeding on her flesh. Now he hoped to find other useful supplies to take with them when they left in the morning. A weapon of some sort would be nice. Boots and a shirt would be even better.

  “I feel bad for stealing this guy’s stuff,” Cami said, wrapping the blanket around her.

  “When we get out of this, I’ll buy the owner a fully stocked, brand new trailer.” He
moved the flashlight over the kitchen counters, which were piled with more fishing gear and empty containers, which, by the smell of them, had once held bait. In the sink were a mallet and a fillet knife. For a brief second he pictured whacking Steven over the head, then slitting the bastard’s throat. For what he had done to Cami, he deserved to die. As for Steven’s ex and her fiancé, Cami had been wrong to place their deaths on his shoulders. He hadn’t killed those people, Steven had. At this point, he no longer cared what she thought. His main concern was making sure she didn’t end up like Steven’s ex.

  He left the mallet and knife in the sink, then walked down the short narrow corridor. A small bathroom was to the left. Mold blackened the shower. The repulsive toilet was missing its lid and seat, the bowl filled with…his stomach dropped. He shifted the light from the severed fingers to the reddish brown stains on and around the toilet, to the sink, then to the walls and broken mirror. When he flashed the light to the floor, he discovered a large stain near the shower. He’d walked through enough crime scenes to know the difference between feces and blood. Based on the fingers, dried smears, spatter patterns and the stain, he doubted whatever had happened in this bathroom had been a fishing accident.

  Why couldn’t they catch a break? They’d possibly managed to outmaneuver Steven, only to wind up stumbling into a trailer of horrors.

  “Finding anything?” Cami called.

  “Maybe,” he said, not ready to share what he’d discovered just yet, then took several steps toward the closed pocket door. Concerned about might lay beyond the door, he backtracked to the kitchen for the filet knife. He glanced over his shoulder. Cami sat against the wall, eyes closed and the flashlight glowing next to her. She needed to rest, not worry about what was in the trailer. At least, not yet.

  He made his way to the bedroom, then slid open the pocket door. The flashlight touched on a couple of large boxes, a bloodstained mattress, then several black garbage bags. He’d been in rooms where a corpse had been decomposing. Fortunately, this one smelled like the rest of the trailer. He’d take rotting fish over rotting flesh any day. Curious, he checked one of the boxes and, frowning, stared at dozens of plastic pink flamingos. Souvenirs? Based on the blood and fingers he’d found in the bathroom, he had a hard time buying that the trailer’s owner was in the business of selling lawn ornaments.

 

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